Knight in Shining Armour
by FortunesArkHero
Summary: Sherlock and John take a case that ends with them getting caught in a tragic car bombing. Although John survives, Sherlock, however, does not escape unscathed. John is left to care for the amnesiac and broken Sherlock, to be his knight in shining armour and wait until he comes back to him. And for his best friend, waiting is what he'll do no matter how long it takes.
1. Prologue

**A Sherlock fanfic, because we are so close to getting season 3, so you're being rewarded with some Johnlock. Please read and review, it is much appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the lovely mates at BBC own them. I just own this story. With that, enjoy.**

Sherlock trounced through the flat quickly. His anxiety was getting the better of him. He needed a case, he realized, and fast before he was going to force John to play another game of Cluedo. He had given up (or rather was forced to give up) the patches and his cigarettes. But damn it, he needed a case. Hopefully, any minute now, Lestrade would call with matters concerning a homicide, suicide, robbery, anything, really. It could even be a missing cat case, for all he cared. He could go for a walk, sure, scour the underbellies of London, but that might've been tedious work. Perhaps he would read about the Solar System.

"Sherlock!" John called from the kitchen. "I'm making scones. Do you want one?" Sherlock stopped in an abrupt way, almost jerking his body back. "I do not need sugar at a time like this, John. I need a case." He then sat down, his hands on his knees and his thumbs tapped against his knee caps. John walked into the sitting room. "Sherlock, it's been three days. Please, eat something. A biscuit, toast and jam, maybe a cuppa." Sherlock waved him off, as usual. John was literally so close to just saying bollocks to this cold turkey process and give Sherlock the patches and his cigarettes and call it a day.

"Break out the Cluedo, John. I am bored and needing a case. Unless you prefer I find my pistol and shoot another smiling face into the wall." John's eyes narrowed onto Sherlock intensely. It was no fun playing Cluedo since according to Sherlock, it's entirely possible for the victim to actually do it and that the rules were wrong. Best to not tread down that path again. "Why don't you have a go at crosswords?" John suggested, honestly. He knew Sherlock could easily solve a simple crossword game, but at least it would keep him occupied. "What's the point?" Sherlock asked, dejectedly. He ran his hands through his curly dark brown curls. "Three minutes and I'll have finished it, easily."

"Three minutes?" Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug. "Normally only two, but my brain's a bit frazzled." John cracked a sly smile as he went back to tending to his pastries and the kettle he just put on. "You sure you don't want a cup? Just picked up a new flavor. Some sort of strawberry melon." "Fine. Just a small cup." _Finally,_ John thought, victoriously. Finally he was able to get Sherlock to ingest something. The younger man still sat on the couch, racking his brain with things to try and catch his interest.

Nothing caught his fancy.

Sherlock had actually decided that he could drink two cups of his strawberry melon tea and feel fine, so he did. Still acted like a stubborn child when it came to eating, though. But he was still yearning for a case, severely hoping, damn near praying that Lestrade or Mycroft kept him in their thoughts should they need him. Mycroft didn't really like to use Sherlock, but desperate times and whatnot. Sherlock almost thought he should take a nap, and just relax on this beautiful afternoon in London.

That was until the phone rang.

Sherlock's bright eyes darted to the landline, but John was the one who answered. "Watson, here." Sherlock studied John's face, intently. At one point in the conversation, John's lips parted slightly and his brows crinkled and Sherlock knew. There was a case. "Yes, I'll tell him." John hung up just as Sherlock bolted to his room to change. Thank god, something to keep him happy. "There's been a murder in an underground car park," John called from the sitting room. "I don't think I need to ask you if you want to go."

The whole cab ride there, Sherlock had a cheshire-like grin upon his face. This was the first case in 36 hours, 18 minutes, and 51 seconds (yes, Sherlock had actually counted how long when it would take a case to come up), and truly, he wanted to savor this. It felt like he had discovered Atlantis or had found the Holy Grail. The cabbie pulled up into the car park. Lestrade and his team were already there, Anderson was probably on forensics (drat). Sherlock and John piled out of the car, gave the cabbie his appropriate fare, and got to Lestrade. There was a small green Volkswagen. _Christmas,_ Sherlock thought, happily,_ it's bloody Christmas._

"So," Sherlock said to Lestrade as he also hovered around the car. "What have we got?" "Female, 22 years old. Her name's Amanda Cartwright. She has abrasions on her body as well as a stab wound in her lower back. Pretty much an open and shut case." "Then you wouldn't have phoned us," John said as he crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock had put on gloves and examined Amanda's sprawled out body in the car. "Is this her car?" "Yes, registration matched up and we ran her name through the system. No outstanding records. She was a med student at Bart's. Had a promising future."

Sherlock took the girl's hand into his own and looked at it carefully. "Now, why would someone murder a med student and leave her in the car?" He asked himself. He looked closer at Amanda's hand. "There are flakes of skin and some blood under her fingernails. There was a struggle and she defended herself." Sherlock stood up straight, and examined his surroundings carefully and removed his gloves. There were skid marks next to her car. Fresh ones. He clapped his hands together in excitement. "Amanda knew her killer. They waited for her." "How can you tell?" Of course it would be Anderson to ask such a mundane question. Why couldn't Anderson just for once in his life think clearly?

"Because," he said as he turned to Anderson with glaring blue eyes. "There is a blood stain on the ground from where she was stabbed and fell, which could only mean that the killer knew her and placed her back in the car. He felt remorse, but not enough to put her body into the car right away. She was lying on the ground for at least 20 minutes before the killer put her in the car. He knew that he was hurt from their scuffle, but what was he doing before he put her back?" Sherlock stepped away from the car a few paces.

It was time to go to the mind palace.

Sherlock's mental map appeared. He tried to envision Amanda and her killer in this very spot. The coroners gathered around, attempting to remove Amanda's body from her car and take her to Bart's morgue. "Sherlock, got any ideas?" asked John as he tried to walk to the detective. "Why would the killer leave her on the ground and _then_ put her in the car? What was he doing in that time gap?" He looked toward the car again, the skid marks, anything that would shed some light on this, while walking further away from John. "He _knew_ that she had injured him, that his DNA under her fingernails would lead us to him. He may have known her, but why keep her around in her car? Why keep _evidence_ around?"

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the skid marks, and slowly, they trekked their sights to Amanda's car again. And that's when he saw it. Little white wires stuck out under the passenger side seat, underneath Amanda. It was a damn bomb! That's why he put her back in the car! The bomb was activated the moment her body was placed on the seat. If she were removed, it would go off. And Sherlock was only 5 feet away from the car and her body was being moved.

He turned to John with a horrified look clearly apparent on his face; a look of concern, sadness and some form of guilt. John would be safe; he was far away enough to where he would be out of harm's way. A few cuts and bruises, but he would be ok. Lestrade, too, and Anderson, the little prat. They all would be ok. But Sherlock was too close to the car. The ME's would perish, too. But his main focus was on John. His last coherent moments were solely focused on John's safety. Not his own, but that of his best friend.

"John, run!"

All he heard was the scraping metal against the ground and the roar of the explosion's fire coming toward him. The force of the explosion launched Sherlock and he was hurled into the concrete wall. His head connected to the wall with a sharp and sickening crack. He landed on the ground hard. His head throbbed, his vision darkened to splotchy black patches. He felt the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His body felt ablaze, and it hurt like hell.

The car park's structure began to crumble just as Sherlock's vision gave out completely, and debris and rubble encased the young detective. He was no longer in John's vision.

"Sherlock!"

**I hope I have punched a whole in your heart with feels. This is my first Sherlock fic, but goddamn I ship Johnlock so much. I am not a medical expert nor educated in crime solving, so things might be wrong. But I'm hoping I got everyone in character, especially Sherlock, he's a stubborn child sometimes. Please, read and review and favorite and follow! I will reward you with otter and hedgehog cookies!**

**~Fortune**


	2. Chapter 1

**I am overwhelmed by the response to this story. So many touching words. I couldn't stop writing, so please enjoy another chapter. **

**Warning: You will feel bad for John, and you will certainly feel bad for Sherlock. Have some tissues.**

John paced in the waiting room of St. Bart's hospital. He rubbed his temples clockwise, as he had been doing that for nearly 5 hours ever since they arrived there. John had been cleared by a doctor, he sustained no serious injuries: A few cuts and a small bump on his cheek, but that was it. The doctor suggested that John go back to the flat and that he would update him on Sherlock's condition, but he wouldn't budge. His best friend was in the OR fighting for his life and there was no way in hell he was leaving the hospital so he could rest. John's legs dragged him to the restroom. He looked himself in the mirror: his jumper was dirty, as well as his face and hands, and every now and again, he would cough violently. Well, that was to be expected since he was the one who pulled Sherlock from the debris. He closed his eyes, the incident imprinted in his mind.

_The smoke filled the car park quickly and everyone was shouting frantically. The hospital had most likely already been phoned, having dispatched an ambulance. John looked at the spot where Sherlock was buried under the rubble. "Sherlock!" He yelled. As quick as the wind, John ran to his fallen friend. It was hot. He began to pull away the rocks, scratching his fingers and his hands. The smoke stung his eyes and lungs harshly. All he could think of was Sherlock. As some of the fire from the car sparked, a piece of debris pelted John on his left cheek bone; he could feel the blood trickle down his face. But it didn't matter. All that did matter was getting Sherlock free from this fiery hellhole._

_Finally, after all seemed lost, he pulled the detective out from under the debris. "Sherlock!" His chestnut curls were a matted mess and clung to his face; his normally pale and porcelain skin was marred with cuts and bruises. A long gash was etched into his right brow, and trailed near his eye. His eyes were closed, his breathing was shallow. His chest barely moved. John placed two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse, and thankfully, it was there. But it was barely there. "Come on, Sherlock, you can't give up, you stubborn git." He examined what he could of Sherlock's injuries, and noticed his right leg looked odd. No doubt that it was broken. And only God knows what internal injuries he had suffered. John did the only thing he could do until the ambulance arrived, and that was to cradle Sherlock in his arms and if he could hear John in his unconscious state, tell him that everything was going to be alright, that he was going to make it and everything would be ok._

John walked out of the restroom. He wanted Sherlock to be ok; he _needed_ him to be ok. He was his best friend. His heart told him that Sherlock was going to make it, but his head, the most logical out of the two, told him differently. On the ambulance ride to Bart's when the paramedics were assessing Sherlock's injuries, he flat-lined. Thankfully, they restarted his heart not long after that. But he still flat-lined, and that meant that his injuries were worse than previously deduced. He needed to see a doctor or someone to tell him how he was doing. Something to ease his mind, even if only for a moment. "Dr. Watson?" John slowly spun on his heel and saw a young doctor stand there with a chart in his hands. Sherlock's charts.

"How is he?" was all he managed to squeak out. "Took quite a bit of work, but he's alive. Damn near miracle, too. He flat-lined on us, but he's a fighter." John smirked at that. "You've no idea. Can I see him?" The doctor licked his lips and led John to a room in the ICU. He gripped the handle to Sherlock's room, turned it slowly and allowed him and John to enter. John's heart nearly sank at the sight of the younger man lying deathly still on the hospital bed. His right leg was encased in a plaster cast; his right hand was wrapped in thick bandages. His left shoulder was exposed and wrapped tightly in thick bandages as well. The gash on his eyebrow was now stitched together. He also had a tube down his throat.

"He's in a bad way, Dr. Watson. Really bad. Broken right leg, sprained right wrist, broken left shoulder blade, cracked his head. He also broke four ribs and had a punctured lung, so that's why the tube is down his throat, so it can help him breathe. When that's not needed anymore, we will replace it with a cannula, and we're hoping that he's awake by then. But I think his best chance for recovery lies with you. He has you as his emergency contact, so we will set up a cot for you so you can stay with him. He's going to be asleep for a while, but his body needs the rest." John gave a sigh of relief. Sherlock was going to live. It was going to be a lengthy and exhausting process, but he was going to be ok.

"Is there any permanent damage?" "Unfortunately, we won't know until he wakes up. There could be, but he also could make a full recovery. But, as I said, we won't know until he wakes up. I will have round the clock care for him, though." John shook the doctor's hand and then was left alone. He almost wanted to phone Mycroft and tell him of Sherlock's condition, that his brother was lying in a coma. John grabbed one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs from the hallway and dragged it up to the right side of Sherlock and gently held his injured hand in his. John began to absently rub soft circles with his thumb. And he allowed himself to cry.

Some of the tears dripped onto Sherlock's hand. "Nearly gave me a fright. Sherlock," John muttered, sadly. He almost expected a response from the detective, but all he got was the beeping of the machines keeping Sherlock alive. John looked him over again. It was sickening, truly it was, and none of it was right. The artificial rising of Sherlock's chest with every breath the tube allowed him, his broken form, wrapped up appendages. It made John want to vomit what little content was in his stomach. But he had to be strong for the injured man lying in front of him.

"I am not losing you again."

Suddenly, soft knocking came from the door. John turned around and saw Lestrade standing in the doorway. Must've forgotten to close the door. Slowly, Lestrade entered and stood next to John. "How is he?" "A damn mess, that's what he is. Four broken ribs, punctured lung, sprained wrist, broken leg, broken shoulder blade, and probable head trauma, but they won't know until he wakes up." Lestrade sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He only had a cut that required a few stitches on his forehead, but other than that he was perfectly fine. "And how are you?" Lestrade's eyes trailed to the sight of John holding Sherlock's hand, not that he was surprised in the slightest. "I'm fine. A few cuts, but I'm alright." Lestrade shook his head and put his hand on John's shoulder. "No, I mean, are you _ok_?" John licked his lips and resumed to looking at Sherlock. Lestrade wasn't asking if he was physically ok, he knew that he was. Lestrade was asking about his mental state. He watched his best friend die once, and he didn't want to do it a second time.

"Don't worry, John. We'll get the bastard who did this." Lestrade patted him on the shoulder and then he left, closing the door behind him. John gently squeezed Sherlock's hand, as to not hurt him more. "I swear to you, Sherlock," he started, softly. "No matter how long it takes, or what I have to do, I will make sure you come out of this. And you'll be ok." Again, the sounds of the ventilator hissing and the beeps of the machines were John's only responses. "No matter how long."

An hour later, Mrs. Hudson had gone to Bart's in search of John and offer some comfort to him. She understood that Sherlock and John had a connection that no one, not even she, could quite understand. She had brought some food (because everyone knew that hospital food was crap), and a few changes of clothes, because it was quite obvious that John wasn't leaving at all. Quiet like a shadow, Mrs. Hudson made her way to Sherlock's room. She was welcomed with the same noises of the machines as John was, but her heart nearly broke at the sight before her: John had been lying on his cot next to the bed, his hand resting on Sherlock's hand. She walked over and put a blanket on him, kissed his temple and kissed Sherlock's forehead, her tear dropped onto his cheek. Even though her boys were broken, they were together again.

Her Baker Street boys.

**So, should've mentioned that this takes place after Reichenbach, so there will be no physical Moriarty, but there will be plenty of mentions of him. I can almost see Season 3 in my head. And we finally see Mrs. Hudson! So, as with my other stories, I always do reviewer shout outs to express my gratitude, so here they are.**

**beemoh-I'm glad you enjoyed it, and here is a new chapter for you. Hope to hear from you again.**

**princeofthefallingangels-Thanks very much! I'm a sucker for hurt!lock, and I think it brings them closer. Come back again.**

**foxeeflame-Thanks, was a bit scared about this story, but a lot of people seem to like it. Want to hear from you, too.**

**MinJi-Haha thanks! I'm glad I was able to get Sherlock down pretty good.**

**HisBlogger- Aw thanks my Watson! I was scared I wouldn't do Sherlock any justice, but I think my fears are gone now. I love cliffy's I am apparently really good at writing them.**

**Sherlock Holmes- Well something has to stop you for bit, doesn't it? Without Moriarty, I needed something. Plus, I don't think a car bombing story has been done yet, so I thought it was creative. And you are right, Scotland Yard would be lost without you. I will try to write a good recovery for you.**

**Teensuperwholock-Thanks! As I said, I'm glad I was able to keep everyone into character.**

**linkingworlds- Thanks, Lindsay! I definitely see the parallels between you and Sherlock, and yOU MAY HUG THE OTTER! Write Reaper, dammit.**

**Guest 1- I've broken a heart! And Sherlock will have a long road to recovery, just don't worry.**

**Guest 2- Thanks, mate! I tried my best to keep him in character (watching the show many times helps). I am wanting to make him better, too.**

**Gene- Ha! Thanks dear!**

**I love writing those out! They make me realize that I love writing for all of you! As always, reviews are appreciated! Happy reading!**

**~Fortune**


	3. Chapter 2

**I am considering this a present for Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday! Happy birthday, Benny!**

**I am so grateful to the response to this, it's all very lovely. Thank you so much, readers. Here is chapter 2.**

**Warning: feels at the ending bit of the chapter.**

Sherlock was still asleep, and that worried John.

It was 4 days since the car bombing, and Sherlock was still asleep. Barely any progress was made, other than his fingers would twitch every couple of hours. Mrs. Hudson had been fixing up the flat to accommodate Sherlock's needs when he would be going home. Some tests had been run on him. His head injury showed that the swelling had gone down; his right wrist had nerve damage which had been repaired and put in a plaster cast rather than bandages and his left arm was now put in a sling. He still had the tube in his throat to help him breathe, which John had expected considering that it took extensive work to patch Sherlock's punctured lung that occurred when his ribs broke. Oh, how he wished that he would wake up.

There hadn't been any breaking news on the car bombing case. Scotland Yard hadn't come up with anything, which wasn't a shock since Sherlock wasn't there to help. John never left the hospital. He only left Sherlock's room to shower, his food was brought to him (thought he didn't eat much) and Mrs. Hudson came and took his dirty clothing and brought him new clothes. She didn't mind, she knew John had to be the first person Sherlock saw when he woke up. The detective, though he really wasn't one to show it, would no doubt be scared seeing all the machines hooked up to him, a tube protruding out of his mouth and be forced to feel pain coursing through his whole body. So, John never left him.

John looked up from a small notepad he was writing in when he heard knuckles wrapping on the door. To his surprise, it was Molly Hooper. Her hair was down, it was strange, it was usually up in a ponytail. "I came to see how you two were," she said, softly. She gazed at Sherlock and a tear rolled down her cheek at the sight of him. Molly still harbored love for him. She always would. Loving and unloving Sherlock was just something one did not do. "I should've come sooner, offered some comforting words. But now that I'm here, I really don't know what to say." "Well, just being here helps, Molly." She lightly smiled. Molly knew that she wasn't actually helping in any way, but it wouldn't do good to argue with John. She crept over to the left of Sherlock carefully as to not aggravate his injured shoulder. "I know you'll wake up soon. You've got people who need you." She gently dipped her head and pressed her lips into Sherlock's hair.

After giving a hug to John, she left the two alone again. She made herself a silent promise that no matter what would happen with those two, she would always help out. John would certainly work to help pay the rent and Sherlock's medical bills, so if he ever needed her, the wind would be at her heels. He looked at Sherlock again; his chest rose and fell in rhythm with the beeping of the machines. The nurses showed him how to change Sherlock's bandages for his ribs when he'd have to. And they would prescribe him some painkillers, but the bugger needed to wake up first.

"I always knew he'd end up in a hospital, but I never suspected a car bomb would be the one to do it." John bolted from his chair and turned around; some fury began to boil inside him. "What the hell are you doing here?" "He's my brother, John. Where else would I be?" John clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth in order to keep his anger down. "Then why didn't you come sooner, Mycroft? Your brother was fighting for his life, why didn't you come immediately?" Mycroft stepped closer to John, their eyes locked together, fiercely. But at least Mycroft knew that the look in John's eyes was solely to keep Sherlock safe. The look of a man protecting his best friend. "Did you think that I didn't want to come to Sherlock's side? Ever since I heard about what happened, I have tried to get here. To be there for my little brother. Which is why after he wakes and is released, he will be living with me."

"No," he dead-panned. "When Sherlock wakes up, he will be staying at the flat. It's the best place for him. He knows it. It's home. Plus, with your job, you'll hardly have time for him. He'll need someone who can be within earshot, to change his bandages and someone who can take him to physiotherapy and get medication for him. I don't mean to be hurtful, Mycroft, but that's what is gonna happen. Sherlock staying at the flat is what's best." Mycroft pursed his lips and gripped the hilt of his umbrella tight. He knew John didn't mean anything to hurt Mycroft, but he was right. With his work, he wouldn't be able to help Sherlock with anything. "I will pay for his medical bills, and his medication and whatever else he will need." He walked up to Sherlock and patted his arm lightly. "Do wake up soon, little brother." And he left.

John felt a slight twinge of guilt in his heart. If he upset Mycroft, he honestly didn't mean to. He just didn't think that he was suited to take care of Sherlock considering his job. It didn't mean that Mycroft couldn't see his brother, far from it. He could visit him whenever he wanted. John ran a hand over his face and felt vibrations in his pocket. Who was calling him? He pulled out his mobile and looked at the caller ID, and immediately he answered. "Harry, hello, it's nice to hear from you. Yes, we're both alive. I'm fine, just a few cuts and bruises, but I'm ok. He's not doing so well, though, so I'm going to take care of him." John gave a momentary pause. "Yes, I'll keep you updated. I love you, too, Harry." John hung up his mobile with a small smile on his face. It was nice to hear from his sister. He missed her a lot, but he was glad she understood that he needed to take care of Sherlock.

John sat back down on the chair next to the bed. "I asked you for one miracle, Sherlock, and that was to not be dead. You granted me that miracle. I know this might sound selfish, but just do this for me, and wake up soon. Just…follow my voice back." Nothing happened. Sherlock needed the rest, he supposed, but that didn't stop John from worrying about how long he would be asleep. He gently laid his head on the bed, an inch from Sherlock's fingers. He sighed, heavily, his eyelids began to droop. This exhausted him, being up long hours of the night in case Sherlock awoke and he hardly slept.

It was nightmares and different scenarios of the explosion that plagued the poor army doctor. What if he got there too late and Sherlock died in his arms? What would happen if Sherlock never woke up, or if they never even took the case at all? Too many questions, too many headaches. It wouldn't be good if he ended up in the hospital with a panic attack. No, that wouldn't end well at all. Luckily, he was able to manage his stress pretty well after spending time in Afghanistan. But this was like all of Afghanistan jammed into one moment, and even for an army doctor, it was all too much to bear. John had seen men die, good men, and he knew he would be able to get over them eventually. But if Sherlock died, actually died this time, John would never be able to allow himself to forget, and he would never be able to forgive himself. John shook the thoughts from his mind and he closed his eyes.

It was an hour later. The beeps of the machines made the only noise in the silent and gloomy room. John still rested his head on the bed next to Sherlock's hand. Slowly, his blue eyes opened groggily at the feel of something lightly touching his head. He sat straight up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand while he inhaled deeply and then yawned. That's when it suddenly hit him, that there could have only been one thing touching his hair. And John looked to see those piercing blue eyes, the calm before the storm, gaze at him with the scared look of an innocent child.

Sherlock had woken up.

**So, he's awake, but he's not out of the woods yet. Far from it. And interesting to see Molly and Mycroft and hear from Harry, eh? I am so grateful to all of you. Without you, this story wouldn't have survived. I'd be lost without my readers. And here are the reviewer shoutouts!**

**zoofreakpkh-Thank you very much! I wanted to give the audience something they hadn't seen yet. And I am hoping I can pull it off.**

**fozeeflame- Thanks! I tried finding an image that represented Sherlock getting hurt, and that was the only I could find, and it seemed appropriate. And I am not a criminal expert, but I do watch a lot of crime shows, so I'm hoping that helped. This chapter will let you see more of protective!john. New chapter for you dear.**

**beemoh-I collect broken feels in a jar (not really)! Thanks, love.**

**linkingworlds-LET'S HUG THE OTTER! And Watson will be tough to get through. And you got your wish, but next chapter might hurt you.**

**MinJi- Told ya. I cry for both while writing this, trust me, it's not easy. Yeah, without John, Sherlock would be in loads of trouble. Thank you, I'm hoping I got John down in this chapter, too.**

**HisBlogger- You may hug them, but proceed with caution. I will make everyone have feels with this story. Thank you very much, and here is a new chapter.**

**Sherlock Holmes-Clever? Me? And you're recovery will take its course, just be patient (which I know isn't your thing), but just wait.**

**Guest 1-This chapter may lighten your spirits a bit. And I wrote Mycroft in!**

**Guest 2- I told you, you would feel bad for them! **

**Once again, please read and review, and follow and favorite! And most importantly.**

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BENEDICT TIMOTHY CARLTON CUMBERBATCH!**


	4. Chapter 3

**So much love for this story! Thank you all for support I am getting for this. It truly means a lot! So, this chapter deals with what Sherlock is feeling right as he wakes up. Please enjoy and as always, please read and review!**

Sherlock had woken up.

His eyes were wide with panic and he began to thrash about. When he saw him scared like that, John got up from his seat and cupped Sherlock's face and rubbed his cheek with his thumb. "Hey, you're alright, just calm down." Sherlock's gaze darted to the tube down his throat and then back at John, silent questions in his eyes: Why is this down my throat? Why am I in pain? What is happening to me? "Look, listen to me carefully and I will help you the best that I can right now, alright?" Slowly, Sherlock nodded, seeing as how he had no other choice at the moment. He did seem to calm down, which was very good. He didn't need to agitate his injuries further.

"You were in an accident and you were hurt very badly. That's why there is a tube down your throat. It's helping you breathe. You've injured your leg, your wrist, your ribs, your shoulder blade, and your head might feel a bit fuzzy. Does your head hurt?" Again, he nodded slowly, and winced at the sudden sharpness of the pain from his injuries that consumed him all at once. "Figured so," John whispered to himself. "OK, I'm going to go to the doorway and call for a doctor to look you over. I'll be right back, I promise." John walked to the doorway, never once did he break eye contact with Sherlock until he had to. "Doctor! He's awake! He's awake!" And just as he promised, John went back to Sherlock's side and gently patted his right shoulder. "You'll be ok," he said softly.

The doctor walked in, a small smile on his face. "Wondered when you would wake up," he said as he got close to Sherlock. John patted him again to keep him calm. The doctor jotted down a few notes, and then put the clipboard down on a table next to the bed. He put on gloves and then looked at John. He knew what the doctor was going to do, so he grabbed one of the water bottles he bought and opened it as well as a small waste bin. "He's going to take the tube out, so it might hurt your throat, but I have water to make it better." The doctor put his hands on the tube. "Ok, I'm going to count to three, and on three, I'm going to pull the tube out and you're going to cough so it'll be easier." Sherlock nodded, bracing himself for another bout of pain he knew he was going to feel. "One, two, three!"

He felt the unsavory tug of the tube being pulled out of his throat. He abruptly sat up and coughed harshly, John put the bin under his mouth as the small amount of throw up and spit came suddenly and unwanted. John put the bottle to Sherlock's lips and tipped it back, the liquid was cool, refreshing, and oh, so inviting while he rubbed his back gently and offered comforting words to him. The doctor grabbed the cannula and put it on Sherlock as he lied back down. "Just as a precaution. It seems that you'll be able to breathe on your own; this is just to make it easier. John, may I talk to you in the hallway for a second?" Sherlock's eyes got wide as he looked at John. He didn't want him to leave him alone. "I'll be right back." John followed the doctor outside of the room. Both looked relieved, but it was replaced with a bit of worry. "Doctor?"

"I am hopeful that he will make a full recovery. We will keep him here for another week, at least, so his ribs will heal. And he will have to undergo a good couple of months of physiotherapy, but he won't relapse into a coma. Make him comfortable and just help him the best way you can, and his recovery will go smoothly." John nodded and gave his thanks to the doctor. When the doctor was gone, he released a shaky breath that he didn't know he was holding in. His best friend was now awake and would make a full recovery with his help. Everything was going to be ok. Sherlock was going to be ok, and a huge smile erupted on to his face.

When John walked back into the hospital room, he didn't expect to see Sherlock strenuously trying to sit up after just having woken up from a coma. "Whoa, hang on a minute," he said as he gently helped Sherlock sit up. He let out a few groans of pain, most likely from his ribs still being broken. "You've got to take it easy. It'll do you no good to exert yourself." He fluffed the pillows and sat back down in his chair. Sherlock examined himself carefully, his eyes drinking in his broken form. He saw his wrist and leg in a plaster cast, his left arm in its sling, and he gently touched his torso and felt his broken ribs. Next, his hand went to his eyebrow and he felt the stitches as his fingers trailed from his brow to his cheekbone. "Those stitches will come out in a few days."

Sherlock looked at John, his head swimming with pain and questions. He inhaled and sighed, his aching body only gave a small twinge of pain. Oh, thank god for morphine. He coughed again, and John grabbed for the bottle. Sherlock took it and sipped slowly so he wouldn't get sick. He set his sight on John and saw the faded cut on his cheek, the few scratches on his face, his scratched up fingers and hands. "What happened to us?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. John rubbed his hands over his face. He tried to think of a way to tell him what happened to them as gently as he could without upsetting him. Unfortunately, the only way to tell it was to be truthful and honest. He cleared his throat.

"We were in an accident in a car park. You hit your head, and got all injured. Your right leg and left shoulder blade are broken. Your right wrist had some nerve damage and it's sprained, and you have four broken ribs which punctured your lung. That's why it might hurt you when you breathe." Sherlock sighed as he allowed this new information to sink into his mind. "How long have I been asleep?" He asked, his voice barely audible to where it made him sound like a sad child. "Four days." Sherlock looked at John with a perplexed look. He still felt tired, but he suspected having a broken body would do that to a person. From what he gathered, his life was in serious danger from the accident. And he was scared.

"Given that I had a punctured lung and broken ribs, I had surgery?" John nodded, and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. "John?" He said, oddly, almost as if the name sounded foreign to him, like he never said it before. "Did my heart stop at all?" His eyes went wide. He hoped he never asked that. He shouldn't tell him. He shouldn't, he didn't want to upset him. But Sherlock would figure it out. "Twice; on the way here, and in surgery." Sherlock swallowed hard, a hint of pain flickered in his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and John could've sworn he thought he saw a tear drop down his cheek. This broke John's heart. He hated seeing him like this. There were barely any times that Sherlock cried, and he hated it.

"Hey, it's ok," he said as he patted the detective's arm softly in a comforting way. "I know you're in pain, and I know you are probably scared of everything. It's going to take a while, but I promise that no matter what, whatever you need of me, I will help you as best as I can. You're my best friend, and that's what best friends do for each other. You're going to be ok, Sherlock." The younger man's dark brows were drawn together in a state of confusion, and he pulled his arm away from John's hand. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" He shook his head lightly, but winced at the sudden discomfort. "You can tell me, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

"Why do you keep calling me 'Sherlock'?"

**And a possible cliff-hanger? Just call me Moffat! (not really lol) Thank you all for this! Sorry, for the delay, real life got in the way. Here are the reviewer shout outs!**

**ktwilders- I'm glad you loved it! And all (or most) of your Sherlock related questions should be answered in this chapter. If you still have questions, feel free to PM me! Please enjoy the chapter.**

**beemoh- I'm afraid I must be a Moffat, for some chapters, at least. Not all, but some. Hope to hear from you again.**

**foxeeflame- Here's another update for you, dear! Hope you enjoy!**

**Sherlock Holmes- Yes, you're awake, but not out of the woods yet.**

**Guest 1- Yep, we shall see more Mycroft soon. And This chapter will answer your thoughts of Sherlock.**

**Guest 2-Your worry is just beginning.**

**TheRandomFan- Thanks, love. I was hoping to get a good twist on this story. They might be able to heal, but it'll be awhile.**

**TardisAt221B- Your username is bloody brilliant. I tried to get the characters down and I'm glad you are able to see it like that. And even though I am not a CSI worker, I watch a lot of shows that deal with that (including Sherlock) so, I am hoping to get some deductions and stuff down good.**

**Anonymous- Yes, he is, but he's not ok, yet.**

**LonelyBlogger- Thanks, dear. Here's an update!**

**Wow, everyone's comments were about Sherlock waking up, and it's awesome! So, I hope you guys read, review, favorite, follow...basically continue being the awesome readers you are. Please enjoy, everyone!**

**~Fortune**

**PS. I AM MEETING BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH! **


	5. Chapter 4

**So, I am profusely sorry for the lack in the update. I hope this makes up for it. I am so grateful that you stuck with this story. Please enjoy the bit of angst in this chapter. **

**I also met Benedict Cumberbatch, and am more than likely going to see/meet him again in July for our birthdays.**

John peered through the window to Sherlock's room. Sherlock had fallen asleep, the pain and the amount of medication he had received for the pain had made him drift off into unconsciousness. He sighed, heavily. Amnesia due to the trauma he received from the hit to his head. He understood that some damage had been done to his head, and knew that he would have some memory loss. John expected that he wouldn't be remembered or he would be a fuzzy haze in Sherlock's head, but to have the poor, broken man to forget who he had been was like dropping an anvil onto his chest that crushed his heart. This wasn't fair. How could Sherlock forget who he was?

"John?" He turned to see Lestrade standing next to him, his arms crossed over his chest. The cut on the DI's forehead was free of stitches and was now just a slow fading pink line. "He doesn't remember," John said, sadly, his gaze returning to the man asleep in the room. "He doesn't remember anything, me…or himself." Lestrade's mouth slightly gaped in shock. Sherlock not remembering who he was or what he could do? That was extremely disastrous. "Is it permanent?" John shrugged as he just continued to watch Sherlock. "Dunno. It could be, or it could just be temporary. But I guess it's all up to him and his recovery." Lestrade put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "He'll come back to you. Just give him time."

John nodded as Lestrade walked away. Sherlock would be in here another week until his ribs healed up. Odds were that multiple tests and scans would be done upon him, and the thought of him being scared physically made John want to throw up. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock scared (that time at Baskerville did not count) and it upset John very much. Seeing as how his true place was with his friend, he walked into the room. He sat ungracefully in the more comfortable lounge chair they provided him with, opening up a magazine and read it. When he was finished with that, he let it drop to the floor. He looked at Sherlock, just gazing as his friend slept. His breathing was steady and natural, and John was grateful for that.

Suddenly, Sherlock stirred. John saw him wince at the pain he was in. "Hey, it's ok! Just stay still." The detective's eyes fluttered open, his tired orbs set on John. The older man smiled at him in an effort to keep him calm. He did find comfort in the other man's smiles, even if it were very small. Sherlock (he still thought that it was weird that that was his name. Who would name their kid 'Sherlock'?) thought John was a good man. He stayed with him while he slept to make sure he was going to be alright, was the first person he saw when he woke up, and he just felt safe whenever he was near him. Gently, Sherlock sat up, his ribs ached dully, but the painkillers were still helping him.

"You ok?" John asked, as he gave Sherlock a glass of water. He nodded, lightly, his head still throbbing a bit and he sipped from his glass, finishing it with ease and gave the cup to John. "I just…I wish I could remember, but I can't. It's all a blur. Everything is a blur." Sherlock gently lifted is right hand to his forehead, his fingers once again touched the gash on his brow. "John," he started, slowly. Thank god that the doctor had said John's name before or else he would still feel a bit awkward around him. Their eyes locked together, this time, it was genuine. No fear filled either of them. "Will you tell me…about me? About us? I assume we are friends since you have not left me at all." John's mouth became dry and he swallowed hard. He didn't know all that much about Sherlock's childhood or his teenaged life. Really, Mycroft should be the one to talk to his younger brother, but the thought of Sherlock cringing and being scared of Mycroft made John nervous. But he could tell that his friend felt comfortable around him.

"Um…" he started as he cleared his throat. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. "Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You are a consulting detective, the only one in the world because you invented the job. A consulting detective is when the police are in needing of help, you solve their cases for them. You play the violin when you think, sometimes you won't talk for days on end. You are sort of volatile, dangerous when provoked, but you are fiercely loyal and protective of your friends, and that overtakes your dangerous side. You are immensely brilliant, able to deduce anything from just looking at a crime scene, once. We live together at 221B Baker Street, our land lady is Mrs. Hudson, and you treat her like a mother."

Sherlock drew in a breath and released it slowly, allowing John's words to sink into him (although with John's description about him, he found that it would not be hard to retain this information). He nodded to John to allow him to continue his words. "There was a man named Jim Moriarty. He was considered a consulting criminal, some one that criminals go to seek out how to do crimes and how to get away with them. He grew obsessed with trying to stop you, trying to make everyone see that you weren't who you said you were. He tried to make everyone believe that you were a fake, which you are not. Nowhere near that. He challenged you on the top of Bart's, and said that if you weren't going to kill yourself, he would have his snipers kill me, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, one of the detective inspectors in Scotland Yard that you consider a great friend of yours. You figured out a way to keep us and yourself alive."

Sherlock's brows drew together at the uncomfortable way John had become when talking about Moriarty. "But Moriarty committed suicide and you had to do the same. You called me and you said good-bye, and you jumped from the roof. Everyone thought you were dead, even me. I was a wreck." John took a moment to inhale a big breath, stood from his seat and walked around, trying to suppress the sadness that was welling up in him. He hated the memories that haunted him all those years ago, but if it was going to help Sherlock remember even the tiniest bit about anything, he was just going to endure it. "But I came back," Sherlock spoke, softly. "Obviously."

John smirked. A bit of the old Sherlock was still in there, it seemed. It would just take a while to get him back to normal (normal being a snarky and anti-social asshole). He sat back down in the chair next to the bed and continued the story. "Yes, you came back. After being away for three years, you came back. You said it took you too long because it wasn't safe to come home right away. You had to recover because you actually did sustain injuries from your fall, and you had to take down Moriarty's network. When you knew it was safe, you came home. It took a bit for me to trust you again because I felt betrayed, but I knew that what you did was to protect everyone. So after some time, we picked up where we left off: solving cases and helping people."

Sherlock casted his gaze down to his lap, absently chewing on his bottom lip. So many things racked his muddled brain. It made him feel fuzzy. He just wanted to remember who he was, who John was, anything at all. Not knowing anything hurt him. John sensed his distress, and placed his hand hesitantly on Sherlock's arm for comfort. "I know that everything is probably weird and scary to you. That nothing is making sense. But, they are going to send you home in a few days and after a few months, you'll be back to normal. You'll be all healed up."

"But my memories won't be," Sherlock spoke sadly when he looked John in his eyes.

A glint of sadness was in Sherlock's blue orbs. John sighed, heavily, knowing that his friend's words were true. "Possibly. How long you remain an amnesiac depends entirely on that stupidly brilliant brain of yours." Sherlock chuckled. Oh, God, he actually got him to laugh a bit. That deep laugh. That's what John missed the most. Ever since Sherlock came back after faking his death, he hardly laughed. Seemed a bit like a stab to the heart that he got him to laugh after the man didn't know a damn thing about himself. Sherlock sighed and leaned back into the pillows, his body noticeably had become slacked, but he always looked at John. "John, I'm tired," he said as his eyelids began to droop, a small half smile appeared on his face. John patted Sherlock's arm again. "Yeah, just get some sleep. See you when you wake up." John stood from his chair, intending to let his friend sleep in peace.

"Wait!"

Sherlock's arm shot out and grabbed John's hand, his nimble fingers curled around his wrist. "Please stay until I fall asleep." John looked at him dumbfounded, unsure if the Sherlock he knew was trying to surface itself from this new shell of a detective that had been created from the accident, or if it was just reflex. The blogger hoped for the former. "Please stay until I fall asleep. I know this doesn't make much sense given with what has happened. Nothing does to me. But something in my mind is telling me to trust you. So, please, John. Stay." A weight like an anvil was lifted in John's heart. Sherlock was reaching out to him. He nodded and sat back down as Sherlock settled back into the pillows again. Within a few minutes, the younger man fell asleep, his breathing easy and flowing. It put John at ease as he fell asleep, too.

Sherlock was going to be ok; it was just going to take a while to get him back.

* * *

_-10 days later-_

It had taken a little bit longer than hoped for, but it was the day that Sherlock was being released from the hospital. His ribs were healing but everything still hurt like a raging bitch. He was given a crutch to use for his leg when his ribs were bearable. Sherlock was dressed in a plain gray cotton t-shirt, and navy blue sweatpants, something that would make him feel comfortable. He sat on his bed, propped up and was reading a book in his lap. His left arm was still in a sling, his right wrist was still wrapped up, and his right leg was still in the brace. His torso would still have to be wrapped up until the worst of the lacerations that he received had been healed, which to his understanding, wasn't much longer. The stitches in his eyebrow had been removed; all that remained was a faded pink line. His warrior's wound, as John had called it. Sherlock looked up from his book when he heard knocking on the door. It was John and his doctor, and he brought in a wheelchair. He inwardly grimaced at the sight of the wheeled contraption. He knew it was to help him, but it made him feel like he had to be coddled like a child.

"Ready to go home?"

John had helped Sherlock into the wheelchair and soon, they were out of the hospital and into a cabbie on the way to Baker Street. The detective's eyes roamed all over the buildings, trees, literally everything in the city, just to see if he could remember any of it. Unfortunately, nothing was coming to him. Nothing. John's attention drew to his friend every few seconds and he found himself frowning at Sherlock's vague expression of the city. He knew that nothing was making sense to Sherlock. "You know," John spoke after clearing his throat. Sherlock quickly turned to John, his eyebrows drawn up in a state of curiousness. "It's ok if you don't remember any of this stuff. It's all fine." Sherlock looked back out the window of the cabbie, his face still sad at not being able to call this city home when he knew he did. "I know it's fine," he whispered, sadly. John just sighed, looking at the scenery from his own window.

The cabbie stopped at the designated place. It took a minute, but John helped Sherlock out of the car and paid the driver. Sherlock gazed at the building, but the one thing John noticed was that he was staring intently at the numbers on the door: 221B. "This is our flat?" He asked as John came to stand next to him. "Yep, 221B Baker Street." Suddenly the door opened, the elderly land lady stepped out, a sad look was on her face, but she was glad to have her boys home with her. Cautiously, she stepped up to the two men, embracing John in a hug. When she looked at Sherlock, her eyes got a bit watery. "You're Mrs. Hudson, right? Our landlady? Sorry, but my brain's a bit fickle right now." But Mrs. Hudson just laughed and smiled at him.

"It's no trouble, dear. Everything was explained to me and I have prepared the flat to make it easier for you to move around. I'm glad to have you home." The three entered the building and immediately, Sherlock became a bit uneasy when he saw the stairs. He inhaled a deep breath, his ribs and leg already began to ache in protest. "Sherlock, if you don't think you're ready to tackle the stairs, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would have no problem letting you stay in her flat until you're ready." "No, no, I'm fine. The doctor and the physiotherapist said that I had to move around. I'm going to have to get used to the stairs." He looked at the stairs and then back at John. "I'm ready."

John gently pulled Sherlock's right arm over his shoulder and with small steps, made their way up the stairs. But even though they were slow, the younger man still let out grunts of pain. "Sorry," John whispered every time his friend groaned in pain. Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line so as to prevent himself from spewing out profanities. This was terrible on unimaginable levels. The pain was becoming unbearable. Thankfully, John had gotten Sherlock's prescription medication and he was going to take some with happiness. Finally, after a few seconds (they had to stop twice because Sherlock was fussing about the pain), they got to the sitting room of the flat. John had gotten a pull-out sofa with all his pillows and blankets and set it near the window where he had done all his blogs. He got Sherlock to the sofa, made his way to the kitchen and got the poor man a glass of water. He pulled out two painkillers and walked back to Sherlock.

"Now, the doctor said to take these every 6 hours. I can only give you two at a time, but these are pretty powerful. They will make you a tad loopy, so you'll probably just want to sleep." Sherlock popped the pills into his mouth and took a huge gulp of the refreshing water. He set the glass on a small table and began to look at the surroundings: all the books, the telly, the pictures on the wall, even the skull on the fireplace mantle. "So, this is home," he said as his eyes roamed over every detail of his forgotten home, even the smiley face on the wall, along with the accompanying bullet holes. A faint smile graced Sherlock's face. But even that wasn't enough to stir up some memories for him, and the smile faded. "So, is there anything you want? Food? Telly? A book, perhaps?"

"Actually, John, if you don't mind too terribly, I would like to be left alone. I'm sorry if this is coming off as selfish, but I am a bit tired." "No, it's ok, I understand. You are recovering, your body needs rest. If you need me, just yell for me, alright?" Sherlock nodded and watched as John left the room, and waited until he heard the door shut (John had moved into Sherlock's old room just to be closer to him if he was needed). Sherlock let out an angry huff as he lay down on the sofa, his eyes clenched shut, lightly smacking his palm to his forehead, repeatedly. He hated this. He hated this so much. He felt like such a burden to John, and this wasn't right. He tried hard, but a single tear slipped from his eye. He fisted his hand in his hair, making his injured wrist ache even more.

"Just remember. Why can't I remember? Why can't I just remember John? I just want to remember him!"

John stood close to his door, his ear pressed to it in effort to hear Sherlock. "I want you to remember me, too. I hope you're not so far gone that you can't come back. I need you, Sherlock. And God, I wish you only could remember why."

**So, Sherlock will probably act a bit OOC, but you can't really blame him. He is like a newborn. Oh, John, what were you about to say? Why and what does Sherlock need to remember? I am so grateful for every review, favorite and follow! Those are what keep me going to continue to write this. Also, I wrote some Johnlock one-shots. Go give those a read if you wish. They are in my profile.**

**Here are the review shout outs!**

**Lady Juse-Yes, meeting Benedict was the highlight of my life (I am still not over it). He is an absolutely sweet heart and I got a kiss from him! I might even see him again next year and I will definitely take that opportunity.**

**beemoh-Yes, evil dwells in my heart. And no, it is not wrong for you to enjoy the evilness of my writing. Here is your update.**

**foxeeflame- Thank you, dear! Having Sherlock not remember who he was had my intention from the start. I just didn't want Sherlock to have a few broken bones. I wanted him to be completely and utterly broken. I am a cruel human, indeed. I am a sucker for cliffhangers. And please don't die. Here is your update.**

**Sherlock Holmes- Ah, Sherlock. Always so observant. Yes, that is why you couldn't remember the case. And only time will tell on how long you are like this.**

**Guest 1- Yes, poor Sherlock. And yes, I met Cumbersbumbersswumbers. He is an absolute delight to be around.**

**Guest 2- Your feeling was right. I am cruel for making him forget, but that was the sole purpose of the story. Making him forget and him trying to find his way back to John.**

**TheRandomFan- Your heart now belongs in my jar of broken feels. I am Moffat.**

**TardisAt221B- You are very welcome. And thank you! I always wanted Sherlock to forget himself in this story. I think it makes it better and more angsty/tragic.**

**Anonymous- YEP! THEY ARE GONE AND THEY MIGHT NEVER COME BACK!**

**LonelyBlogger- And another heart into the jar of feels. Only time (and my writing) will tell if Sherlock has permanent memory loss/brain damage.**

**Unionjackpillow- Aw, thank you, dear! Here is the next update, sorry it took so long.**

**Maddy- That last line even got me crying a bit. AND IT'S A GOOD LAST LINE! You got me, I am the real Steven Moffat, using the username FortunesArkHero and I make your hearts ache. I couldn't imagine Sherlock as an amnesiac, and I knew that there were literally none of those stories floating around so I figured it was time to change that. Maybe Sherlock starts to feel better soon...Maybe not.**

**Skye City- Hello, dear. I met Benedict at the Toronto film festival with my friend Lindsay (linkingworlds). He was such a sweet heart. Sherlock doesn't know himself, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, basically everyone. It's like his hard-drive was wiped completely clean. His brilliant mind is completely gone. And thank you for your kind words.**

**Xin0Lan- Yes, a cliffhanger. I try to sneak one in every now and then. I think John thinks that Sherlock losing his memories of himself is more upsetting to him than himself being forgotten by a man that he has come to love as a best friend, one which he lost and was not willing to do again. Here is your update, sorry it took forever!**

**Wow! It feels amazing to do those again! As always, please read, review, follow, favorite and as always...ENJOY!**

**~Fortune~**


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